


What Do You Do for Money, Honey?

by PosseMagnet



Series: Bad Boys Get Spanked [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aggressive Dean Winchester, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Fighting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mark of Cain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Voyeurism, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PosseMagnet/pseuds/PosseMagnet
Summary: Sam and Dean take a trip to see an AC/DC concert.





	What Do You Do for Money, Honey?

No one had ever accused the Winchester brothers of living a luxurious life.

 

Today though… Today was one of those days where everything was perfect. They’re in the Impala, windows down, speeding down the interstate. They’d just finished up a black dog hunt in Massachusetts when Dean had made the impromptu decision to drive to California to see an AC/DC concert. Two days’ worth of driving, and twenty-five hundred and some-odd miles of fast food, loud music, and road head, had smiles plastered on their scruff-covered faces.

 

Sam sits close to his brother, shoulders rubbing, with Dean’s hand in his lap. He traces the perpetually hot, scar-raised skin of the Mark on Dean’s arm, making the hair on the back of Dean’s neck prickle with electric sensation. With a groan, Dean lets his foot sink deeper onto the gas pedal, as he flips his hand, giving Sam’s thick cock a tight squeeze through his jeans.

 

* * *

 

 

The music grinds through the crowd, loud and heavy. The crowd is feverish. Neither Winchester could bear being confined by the press of strange bodies, so Sam and Dean had situated themselves among the fringes along the outside of the crowd. Sam is folded around Dean’s back, arm wrapped around his waist, hugging him from behind, nibbling little kisses into the flushed, freckled skin of his big brother’s neck and ears.

 

Sam didn’t get to be this snuggly with Dean very often, so he was going to enjoy it while he could. He was further rewarded by Dean’s hand reaching back to snake down the front of his jeans, long fingers tracing down his hard cock, and cupping his balls, adroit fingers sliding past his sac to trace Sam’s asshole, still loose and leaking come from when Dean raw dogged him in the Impala before they entered the arena. He quietly curses, the word drowned out by the growling of the guitar on stage, and when Dean slides three fingers into his sloppy hole, he curses again, hips bucking.

 

Dean grins when Sam starts fucking himself on his fingers. He can feel the vibrations from Sam’s groans ripple through his neck where Sam’s lips are sealed, sucking a bruise there as he rolls his hips to push Dean’s thick fingers deeper into his wet insides. Dean’s head thumps back onto Sam’s shoulder with a grunt as he palms his own leaking cock through his jeans.

 

Sam tongues at the bruise blossoming on the dusky, speckled skin of Dean’s neck, ringed perfectly with the imprint of his teeth. He pushes his tongue into the hickey, pulling aroused rumbles and groans out of the older Winchester.

 

Even over the throbbing beat of the rock music, Dean can hear the desperate mewl he jolts out of Sam when his hunt-scarred fingertips graze over Sam’s prostate. He crooks those trigger-happy fingers and massages the hidden bulls-eye inside of his younger brother.

 

“Dean,” Sam cries. He presses his mouth against his brother’s ear, warm breath gusting over Dean’s sweat dampened skin when he says, “Please.”

 

“’Please,’ _what_ , Sammy?” He says loudly, in his gravelly voice.

 

Sam isn’t whining… yet, but Dean can feel him shifting from foot to foot, and he knows his brother well enough to know he’ll be whining to be fucked _very_ soon.

 

Then Sam grabs his arm. Not his left arm – that one’s down the front of Sam’s jeans -- but his right arm. The arm that’s settled on the front of his own wear-soft jeans, lazily rubbing his cock where it’s trapped behind his zipper. The arm that’s home to a raised, sensitive scar, marked by a Knight of Hell, the Father of Murder himself. The arm where the Mark of Cain mars the soft, freckle-kissed skin of his forearm.

 

Sam does it unthinkingly, grasps at Dean, careless in his arousal. He barely has time to register when Dean’s hand is ripped from his jeans, when suddenly Dean is in his face, growling like an animal, backing him up until Sam thumps against the wall of the arena.

 

Normally, Dean isn’t bothered by Sam touching the Mark, but his brother is always careful to ask permission, and the touch is ginger, mindful and delicate. The Mark is sensitive, light touches send a shiver of arousal coursing down his spine, to spike straight through his cock. Firmer touches make him unpredictable. Which is why he finds himself yanking Sam’s pants down his long legs, in the middle of a crowded concert arena, as the opening beat of “What Do You Do for Money, Honey” blasts through the crowd.

 

Sam doesn’t question, he never does when Dean’s like this. He loves… _this_.

 

_“You’re working in bars, Riding in cars, Never gonna give it for free…”_

 

When Sam’s pant leg gets hung up on his boot, Dean snarls… he fucking _snarls_. And, damn the logic in it, but the sound goes straight to Sam’s weeping cock. He manages to kick his boot off a bare second before Dean rips the leg seam on his only clean jeans like the faded denim is made of wrapping paper. He makes a half-hearted attempt at stopping Dean from shredding his boxer briefs as well, but then they’re gone with a purr of ruined cotton and Sam could not possibly care less.

 

_“You’re always pushing, shoving, Satisfied with nothing, You bitch, you must be getting old…”_

 

The Mark has made Dean superhero strong, and he hoists Sam like he’s feather-lite, hooking strong arms under long legs, fingers digging furrows into the acoustic foam that lines the walls of the arena. Sam reaches between them, unbuckling Dean, unzipping, letting his brother’s strained cock bounce out into the humid air.

 

_“You're loving on the take, And you're always on the make, Squeezing all the blood out of men…”_

 

“Sammy,” Dean chokes out, desperate and strained.

 

“I got it, Dean,” Sam says, hawking a wad of spit into his palm to slick up Dean’s cock. It wouldn’t take much, Sam is still so wet and open, always open for his brother. Dean groans when Sam’s hand circles his swollen cockhead, and lines him up.

 

With a surge of impatient hips, Dean breaches the ring of muscle that settles him into the tight, nasty heat of Sam’s insides.

 

Dean shifts his hands farther apart on the wall, spreading Sam wider, settling him lower, as he begins to thrust into his brother. The ruined jeans that still dangle from Sam’s ankle sway languidly at Dean’s back. For a handful of moments, it’s just them, neither speaking, their only sounds are grunts and panted breaths. Both men have lost the thread of the concert that still thunders along behind them.

 

Then Sam shakes Dean a little, to get his attention. “Dean!” he barks, when that doesn’t work.

 

“Yeah, Sammy?”

 

“Dean, people are watching,”

 

“Yeah?” Dean barks, tossing a peek over his shoulder. He does indeed see a group, small, but growing. They mill behind him, red solo cup beers in hand, watching him fuck his brother against the wall. He snorts, turning his attention back to Sam, “Fuck ‘em. I’ll kick their asses later. ‘Sides, they’re just jealous.” His voice is rough, and his hips never stutter in their rhythm.

 

Sam squirms a little, so Dean slows and asks, “Are you okay with that? D’ya want me to stop?” His eyes show an emerald flash of concern, but the smirk across his lips shows that he knows there’s no way in hell Sam is going to ask him to stop.

 

“Dean,” Sam groans, reaching up to grab onto Dean’s forearms. He arches his back, clearly putting on a show for the handful of onlookers. “God, Dean. Please don’t stop.”

 

Dean leans over a little, minor height discrepancy be damned, “You love it, don’t ya?” he croons, “All these people staring at you? Like you’re a whore. Like you’re _their_ whore. When we both know you aren’t for them. You’re only a whore for your big brother, isn’t that right? You’re mine, Sammy. Mine to fight, mine to spank, mine to fuck. You’re mine. _Mine_ ,” Dean growls the last word with possessiveness that makes lust coil in Sam’s gut, and spiral down his backbone.

 

“Fuck, Dean, fuck. Yes. ‘M yours,” he replies, abs rippling as he rolls with Dean’s thrusts, stroking his brother’s fat cock against his prostate. “Always yours.”

 

He comes without so much as a stroke on his dick. His cock jerks hard as ribbons of come unspool in slow motion, painting his faded t-shirt with zebra stripes that glitter in the strobe-lit air of the arena.

 

“Oh, fuck, Sammy,” Dean makes a strangled sounding noise when Sam’s asshole flutters around his cock. He buries himself inside of his brother and comes with a loud string of expletives.

 

His dick is still jerking out the last of his orgasm when he feels a hand slap him companionably on the back. Dean’s elbow is buried in the guy’s sinuses, cracking bone and mangling cartilage, before the shithead even has time to react. The impact rattles up Dean’s arm as he gently sets Sam down, lovingly making sure he can stand before he pulls his hands away. He takes his time tucking himself back into his pants, while the dick bag behind him clutches his nose and curses Dean’s mother.

 

When Dean whirls around, he’s smiling. But there’s nothing kind in the smile, and several people cringe backwards, a few others turn tail and vanish into the crowd. “So,” he begins, arms open as if he wants to hug it out with this cock sucker, “How’s it going?” He draws the words out playfully. “Can I ask why you think it’s okay for you to put your hands on me, or should I just skip the foreplay and rip your spine out through your asshole? I’m cool either way.” He still sounds convivial, but his face doesn’t match his tone because everyone that hasn’t run off takes several more steps back.

 

“Christ, asshole,” the guy finally gets out through the blood in his mouth, after hawking a huge splatter of blood and gore to the floor. “What the fuck is your problem?”

 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice cuts through the hot, red fog of bees that buzz through his brain. He turns toward his brother, blinking rapidly. Sam’s breathing heavy and Dean vaguely thinks it wasn’t the first time he’d called out to get Dean’s attention. He’d pulled on his ruined jeans and tied his flannel shirt around his waist to keep them from falling off. “Dean,” he repeats, gentler this time, “Don’t. Please.”

 

“Sammy?” he asks, still blinking too fast.

 

Sam nods, “Yeah, Dean. Let’s go to the car, okay? Dean, we can get some burgers, then find somewhere to park. Okay, Dean?” He kept saying his brother’s name, to keep him rooted here, not to the arena, where the band still played on, but to Sam. He slowly extends a hand to Dean’s arm, his left arm, moving closer, until his chest was pressed flush against Dean’s shoulder and bicep.

 

Wild green eyes meet Sam’s steady gaze, closing gently as Sam leads him away. “Yeah.” Dean exhales. “Yeah, Sammy. That sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the AC/DC song of the same name. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Comments and Kudos feed the muse. n_n


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